


Trains & Cabbies & Cottages

by Bluestofsteel



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Fangirl - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Original Character(s), Post-Canon, Scotland, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-11-03
Packaged: 2019-08-16 20:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16502435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluestofsteel/pseuds/Bluestofsteel
Summary: The story of Baz and Simon's trip to Scotland. Of trains and cabbies and cottages. And fluff. Lots of fluff.





	Trains & Cabbies & Cottages

**BAZ**

Go on a relaxing holiday for a change of environment -- that’s what Snow’s barmy American therapist said. He’s been having a tough time of things lately. Nightmares, depressing thoughts, the like. Apparently it’s because we’ve not done anything besides go round each others’ flats over the past few weeks. Simon’s been alone with his thoughts for too long, and they’re running wild. 

Well, clearly he doesn’t comprehend the ‘relaxing’ bit. We’re taking Fiona’s MG to King’s Cross, and all he’s talking about is the bloody security measures. 

“D’you reckon they’ll have those x-ray machines?” he asks as we turn onto the street where the station is. 

I sigh. “I doubt it, Snow. This isn’t an airport.”

“No, but it’s a train leaving England. What if . . . what if they see my wings? Or my tail? What if they find your wand?” He glances out the window at a man on the pavement walking a massive German Shepherd, then back at me. “Maybe I shouldn’t’ve brought my sword.”

I jerk my head at him. “You brought your _what?_ ”

We’re still quietly arguing, “No, you don’t need a sword in a cottage in Aberdeen,” when we hand over our tickets. The woman in the booth gives us an odd look. 

Once we pass her, I pull him to the side and whisper, “Deep breaths, Simon. Calm down. Whatever it is you’re worried about, this won’t help. Anyway, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Snow’s shoulders relax and he smiles sheepishly up at me. (I adore the fact that I’m taller than him, even if it is just by a couple inches). Then he pecks me on the lips. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I’ll . . . I’ll stop being so paranoid.”

I take his hand and we keep walking. A couple old hags give us funny looks, but I stare them down. _That’s right_ , I think. _We’re bursting with queerness, and we’re younger and better-dressed than you_. Snow coaxed me into wearing jeans this morning, but I still put on a Scandinavian jumper. Perhaps it’s a bit extraneous for a train to Scotland. I don’t really give a damn. 

**SIMON**

It turns out, there were less security checks than I thought. We get on the train without any trouble. Thankfully, Penny used a double-strength spell on my wings and tail before we left this morning, since it’d be a while before we arrive at Baz’s family’s cottage. 

Travelling across the U.K. is so inconvenient. You can take a five-and-a-half hour round trip, or an hour-and-a-half plane ride, and feel horrible because you’ve wasted money. 

We sit next to each other in the back of the compartment. My tail wraps around my waist and rests in my lap. Out the window, all you can see is drab, dirty London. Home of rats the size of small dogs. Baz tells me the train ride is supposed to get very scenic. 

“Have you never been to Scotland before?” he asks me. 

I shake my head. “The farthest north I’ve been is Lancashire.”

Baz starts to say something about how he supposes I wouldn’t have, what with my type of childhood, but the train lurches forward, and he tapers off before finishing his sentence. His eyes dart around the window, as if he’s trying to take in everything that goes by. 

There’s a sort of uncharacteristic enthusiasm about him. I wonder if he’s always like this on trains. We’ve never been on one together before. Not even during our Watford days. As if one of the Pitches would take a train when they’ve got an entire barn full of the world’s finest cars. 

After a couple minutes, when what’s outside the window is starting to get repetitive, Baz fishes his phone out of his pocket, offering me one of his earbuds. I never used to think Baz listened to music at all. What would he listen to? Mozart? He does, though. It’s mostly ‘80s stuff; Duran Duran and Depeche Mode. The sort with fluffy hair and funny outfits. He told me once, after a couple drinks too many, that he finds _Hungry Like The Wolf_ rather relatable. 

I rest my head on his shoulder. The earbud presses further into my ear, and every time there’s an “s” sound, it tickles. Baz takes my hand and pulls it into his lap. My tail whips around involuntarily, whacking me in the stomach. _We’re one of those couples now_ , I think. 

“I didn’t realize we’d gone so soft,” I say. 

Baz snorts. “When we make moronic Instagram posts, I’ll start worrying. For now, it’s nine in the fucking morning, and I want to cuddle with my boyfriend. Whether you like it or not.”

It’s my turn to snort. 

 

**BAZ**

We’ve long since left the clusters of buildings behind for woods and hills. The journey from London to Scotland truly is stunning. At one point, we go by a farmer working in his field. Snow acts like a child who’s just seen Father Christmas in the flesh, leaning over me to get a better look. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a working tractor,” he says. 

“It’s not a tractor,” I reply. “It’s a combine. Case International, 5088, I believe.”

Snow is staring at me. He’s clearly dumbfounded (nothing new there). “How the hell do you know that?” he asks. 

“The Grimms are farmers, Snow. I’ve spent a great deal of time on my family’s farms.” 

He stares at me a moment longer, then bursts out laughing. I feel his tail slash over the armrest and into my arm. The people around us turn to glare. I glare back. 

“Do you . . . do you mean, you’ve actually, like, driven a tractor?” he says. “And milked cows?”

“Of course I’ve never milked a cow,” I say, rolling my eyes. “There are hundreds of them. We have machines for that.”

Snow wrenches his hand from mine, and takes hold of my forearm. “But you’ve driven a tractor, then?”

“Merlin’s balls, _yes!_ Why does it matter?”

He ignores me, and instead asks, his eyes glinting with mischief, “D’you ever wear dungarees?” 

I don’t answer, but I must be blushing enough to betray myself. Snow laughs again. “Oh my god, you’ve got to wear them sometime.”

“Why on earth would I do that?”

Snow mimes grabbing me by the shoulder straps and pulling me in. I blush some more. Crowley, this is pitiful. There must be enough colour in my cheeks to make me look alive. And Snow’s acting coy, the way he always does when I’m flustered. 

“You can see me wear dungarees if you go to one of our farms and actually do some work for once in your life,” I say. “The thing about crops is that you can’t just grunt at them and have them harvest themselves. Besides, you’re a rubbish driver.”

He looks offended. “I am not! I could work a farm better than you, what with your expensive designer clothes you’re terrified of mucking up.”

I know it’s a hollow insult. Snow rarely means his gibes. Then again, neither do I. “You like my expensive designer clothes,” I say. “The first time you saw me in jeans, I could practically feel you turning gay.”

He laughs. “Hey! Too soon!”

I smirk. Getting him to laugh these days sometimes feels like a marvelous accomplishment. Bunce and I have a competition over it. 

“Anyways,” he continues, “farm work seems like a fair trade for seeing you dress like Corduroy Bear.”

“Excuse me, I look _much_ better than Corduroy Bear.”

Snow rests his head back on my shoulder. I can feel him shake slightly as he chuckles. “You know,” he says, “when I was a kid, at the home, there was this really nice teddy bear we got to play with if we were well-behaved, and I fully believed it came to life at night until I was, like, eight.”

I chuckle. 

“What was the dumbest thing you believed as a kid?” Snow asks. 

“That I was straight.”

Snow lifts his head and gives me a look I know all too well. One that says, “Here we go again.”

I suppose my passive-aggressive attitude over my experiences as a gay member of the Grimm-Pitch family does come up rather often in conversation. Growing up in my father’s house, I was subjected to countless monologues of _when_ I have a wife and _when_ I carry on the family name. Thank Merlin he at least has another son, who is unquestionably alive and most likely heterosexual. (Even if he doesn’t know the alphabet). 

_________________________

Snow’s walking down the platform, bent-over and rubbing his knees. I imagine his wings are flexing now, as well. The way they do when he stands up after we’ve watched a long film. 

“You think we’ll see the Loch Ness monster?” he asks, straightening up. 

“My family’s cottage is three and a half hours from Loch Ness,” I say. “Unless the monster’s gotten the ability to fly . . .”

“Alright, alright, I get it.”

I hand him his duffel bag. “You know what they have got? One of the finest chocolatiers in the city, ten minutes away. We’ll stop by tomorrow, if you like.”

His eyes light up with his typical food-inspired jubilation. I’m probably the only person in the world who has to compete with a meal for their boyfriend’s affection. He shoulders the bag, and we head out into the street. 

**SIMON**

We’re sitting in front of the station in a taxi. I keep glancing apprehensively at the driver. He looks suspiciously like the one who took me back to Watford for the last time. I suppose that doesn’t mean much. Both he and the goblin-driver were your stereotypical cabbie. 

“Where you headin’?” he asks as we start to pull away.

“Taigh-Tuathanais,” Baz said. 

He gives us a double take through the rear-view mirror. “Taigh-Tuathanais? What on earth d’you wanna go there for? Don’t you know it’s haunted?”

I look over at Baz just in time to catch him rolling his eyes. 

“Wait, are you one of ‘em?” he asks Baz. “One of them Grimms? Ha! I’ve always wanted to know, is there any relation to the Brothers Grimm?”

Baz shrugs cooly. “I suppose I must be.”

The cabbie just keeps going on. Baz and I glance at each other. I can tell Baz’s thinking, “this is going to be a bloody long twenty-minute ride.” He talks about the things he’s seen as a child to make him believe in ghosts. How, when he was a boy, they would dare each other to see who could get the closest to the gate. (I’m sure the Grimms would be thrilled to know that Normal children approach their property for a laugh.) 

We pull up at a wrought-iron gate at the end of a steep, gravel road. Baz pays the fare, all the while insisting that, no, we don’t need a lift to the front door. We stand outside until the car disappears down the road, and Baz takes out his wand, looking around us, probably checking for children lurking nearby. 

He uses **Open Sesame** on the gate, and it swings open. 

“Is it like Watford?” I ask. “Will it not let me in?”

“Of course not,” Baz says. “The gate will stay open until I spell it locked again. The Coven’d hardly let us have _that_ powerful of an enchantment on our land.”

We continue down the path, which takes us around a small wood. It’s really more of a wall of trees, blocking the cottage from the road. 

Cottage. Right. All this time, when Baz’s been saying his family has a cottage in Scotland, I’d pictured more of a “small home” kind of thing. You know, like an _actual_ cottage. This . . . this looks more like Isobel Crawley’s house. It’s a mass of white wood and stone, that’s probably ten times the size of my flat. 

“Are you alright, Simon?”

I’ve stopped walking. “If this is what you call a cottage, I’d hate to see what you think a castle looks like.”

“Maybe it’s more of a manor.”

“Manor? The Queen could live here!”

Baz takes hold of my arm and pulls me along the path. “It’s really quite cozy on the inside,” he says. “Come on. I’ll go mad if I don’t feed soon.”

“You know, I was doing some research . . .” I ignore his sarcastic gasp. “Sometimes, in emergencies, doctors use coconut water as an alternative to blood plasma. We could run down to the shop later. See if it works.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Somehow I doubt that would work. I don’t think the whole ordeal really involves plasma. It’s more about having to kill to get--”

I roll my eyes, and Baz tapers off. 

“We can try it, I suppose,” he says. 

“Can you imagine it, though?” I ask. “No more having to leave to hunt in the middle of the night. You could just . . . go to the shop like anyone else.”

Baz’s arm migrates from my shoulder to my waist. Leaning towards me, he says, “You’d find me so boring if I was like anyone else, though.”

That’s a lie if I ever heard one. I hardly remember a time before Baz. And even then, I don’t know how I got on. He’s like an anchor. A light in the dark. When compared to most people, I don’t have much. No mother or father, no world I really belong to. But I’ve got Baz. 

I have love.


End file.
